Like unto Like or Why Opposites Attract
by Original-Elfkin
Summary: Shawn learns to be self defense savvy, & how to be more than simply "bi-curious". Lassiter learns that no amount of warning, preparation, or planning can ever contain the act of nature that is Shawn Spencer. Which he kinda already knew. *slash*
1. Prologue

_This is my first Psych fic. So let me know how the characters feel. Thanks!_

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**Prologue:**

Lassiter hated being right sometimes.

He WASN'T psychic and he'd _still_ known. And it wasn't like he hadn't gotten in the man's face a hundred times, warning him off. It wasn't as though he hadn't warned Karen it was going to come down to some effed up scenario just like this... and Henry too. In fact, over the years, he'd warned anyone who would listen--and some who wouldn't--that Spencer's infernal meddling would end up in someone getting hurt one day.

But as much as he'd wanted to be listened to--to have his expertise and _common _sense acknowledged--he'd never _wanted_ to be right. Not about this. This wasn't how he'd wanted to win.

"Drop the knife and put your hands up!" Carlton shouted, gun trained on Max Castillo, or rather, what could be seen of him around his current human shield.

Spencer...

Lassiter growled in irritation. Rather than being a cooperative soon-to-be-convicted-felon, Castillo had the temerity to actually try thwarting Cartlon Lassiter, tightening his grip on his hostage, digging in the tip of the blade at Spencer's already bruised throat, just a fraction--all the while dragging Lassiter's loud ass, personal cross-to-bear backwards towards the open street.

Castillo knew the detective couldn't open fire on the street for fear of striking civilians. 20 yards and he was home free. "Fuck you!" Castillo laughed. "I got somethin' you want, homie. An' if you think I'm letting little piglet here go, you're one stupid fuck!"

_Great! _Lassiter thought venomously. _Just what the situation didn't need--a perp with decent instincts... _Well, except for the part where he thought Spencer was a cop.

As if!

"Hey, hey, HEY!" Spencer yelled hoarsely, looking less than his normally flip self in Lassiter's estimation. "Don't I get a say in this?" the fake psychic gasped.

"No!" Echoed both Lassiter and Castillo at once. Lassiter snorted. Apparently he shared something in common with Castillo after all--a dislike for Spencer's lip service.

"C'mon Lassie, you might wanna put the gun away. Castillo and I... we got rapport here," he veritably squeaked, and Lassiter had to wonder how much air he was getting.

"Better listen to your partner, Ese. He's gonna bleed, you don't back off."

Lassiter keenly studied Spencer, taking in the bruises across his face, the swelling and discoloration on his left wrist wrapped so tight around the arm cinched under his chin. There was probably a lot more. He'd been worked over but good before Lassiter had arrived.

Instead of complying, Lassiter followed menacingly, keeping his gun trained and his eye riveted, searching acutely for an opening to drop Castillo without hitting Spencer. For an instant he calculated the odds of taking out Castillo by dropping his _vic_. Shoot Spencer in the leg and he was useless as a hostage. With his expert aim, chances were Lassiter would be able to miss bone and venous blood supply, even in the dim alleyway. Of course, that would end his career, even if he _didn't_ do Spencer permanent damage. So as gratifying as it would be, Lassiter couldn't shoot the giant pain in his ass. Not yet. He'd rather save Spencer AND keep his job, thank you very much.

Another tactic might well work though. If he could use Castillo's misconception against him. "You kill an officer of the law and you might as well turn the blade on yourself, Castillo. There won't be a place on the planet you can hide. Cops don't like cop killers even _seeing_ a trial. Too much risk of some sleazy lawyer getting them off." It was true to some extent, though not something Lassiter prescribed to as an ideology. But it was a common enough myth on the streets. Kill a cop, the cops kill you. "Just imagine it. A witch hunt with your face in every police station on the continent--Every tv station, every news broadcast. There won't be a rock to hide under between Argentina and the Northwest Territories, scumbag."

Castillo's glance momentarily darted askance, searching for other cops in shadows, a wild, desperate paranoia filling his eyes. He suddenly looked very scared. Too scared. _Oh shit! _Lassiter thought. _Way to go, Lassiter. Leave the freaked out perp with nothing to loose and explain the body to Henry Spencer later. _

"Just let him go and put your hands up." Lassiter switched tactics immediately, making his stance, his voice reflect an tentative offer of reprieve without untraining his weapon. "No one has to get hurt here."

Truth was though, the longer Castillo waited to release Spencer, the more likely it was that backup was going to get there and this wouldn't end well. "You're already going down for one murder, Castillo. Don't make it any worse than it already is."

"Back off pig! I mean it!" Castillo screamed, edging back faster.

Lassiter internally cursed, noting a momentary, tiny opportunity Spencer just missed--an opening in the perp's resolve and attention for a slim instant. Not enough for Lassiter to fire his weapon, but enough that if Spencer had had any training in self defense whatsoever he could have risked trying to free himself. With Lassiter there, it would have been a sure bet. Now the moment was gone and wasted. He met Spencer's eyes, saw the pain, the confusion and fear. Still, there was resolve there...a sharpness that never seemed to leave the man. It was just as Lassiter had thought then, Spencer wasn't incapable of acting on the moment, he simply didn't know how. Karen and he would be having a long talk after this--if Spencer survived, that is.

"Lassiefrass... You could just, you know...let all this go. Let the VERY nice Mr. Castillo get away? I'm sure he's just planning on taking the money and starting a... a bakery. Yeah! A bakery, in another town. So that you don't even have to buy his muffins..." Lassiter could hear the panic under Spencer's nervous babbling and could _almost _sympathize. Almost. If not for the fact that the man's idiocy was what caused them to be in this predicament to begin with and even now he was spouting crap.

"Just shut up and stay sharp, Spencer. We'll work this out." And he would. He had to.

Castillo took that moment to cinch an arm tighter around Spencer's throat, wrapping the other arm around his hostage's waist in a sick parody of an embrace--the blade-tip resting just under Spencer's sternum. A heart kill if he stabbed there and Lassiter got the message loud and clear. Back off.

He gave up a few feet, nothing that would cost him a shot, but might let the perp relax a fraction. Lassiter spared a moment to look Spencer over again. He wondered if the useless lunatic was going to pass out. It was obvious--even in the dimness--that he was sweating and pale as a sheet. Shock setting in, no doubt. It wouldn't hurt if he did. In fact, it might be just the thing to give him an opening if Spencer hit the ground. If only he could communicate to Spencer that some of his girly theatrics would be oh so welcome right about then.

They were still gradually working toward the crowded street. The alleyway would be ending soon, and with it Lassiter's last chance to avert tragedy. If it were O'Hara the bastard had hold of, this would be over--a hand gesture from Lassiter, a subtle communication of intent...a team effort would have already dropped the perp. But Shawn was on the outside, never having learned the right lessons from Henry... or Lassiter. And now he was paying the price. Lassiter could hold up a damn sign and it wouldn't guarantee Spencer would comply.

And there wasn't time to wait any longer. It came down to either letting Castillo make it to the street where civilians would unwittingly interfere with apprehending him. Worse yet, if Castillo did the _smart _thing, he'd drop Spencer with a mortal injury before he fled, leaving Lassiter behind to save the pain in the ass while Castillo got away. OR Lassiter could drop Spencer, then drop Castillo. Save Spencer, catch the murderer and kiss his career goodbye.

It wasn't any real choice. Lassiter only hoped that in the dim light of the alleyway, he could aim to do the least amount of harm to Henry's son.

He stopped his advance forward, meeting Spencer's glance, wishing he could apologize ahead of time. And it was there, dammit! A queasy sort of recognition in those green eyes that said Spencer knew just what was coming. How in the hell could Spencer realize what he was planning with a mere glance but couldn't work out how to help avoid it? Lassiter's stomach turned, his resolve shaking as he witnessed honest, open panic in the man.

"Lassie! Don't!"

He took aim.

"Hold still, Pinche Maricón*!" Castillo screeched at Spencer who chose that moment to struggle madly.

Lassiter's mind split in two for a hair's breadth of an instant--torn between abject horror that Spencer had decided to squirm unpredictably just as he'd pulled the trigger and irritation that yet again, the damn charlatan was ruining his best laid plans. It firgured Spencer couldn't have thrown the perp off ballance when it would have been advantageous. It figured he'd have done it when it was most risky, most likely to go sour.

TBC soon...

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XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

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_* Pinche Maricón__ is Spanish derogatory slang for a homosexual. Equals the term "f****** faggot"._


	2. Chapter 1

_Hey folks! Back again with chapter 1. I am really hoping this works out well. It's not the most exciting chapter. But it was great to stretch myself write Shawn and Gus together. My first time really digging into their characters and I probably should have started small with drabbles and worked my way up. I'm still learning their voices, both internal and external--but it's perhaps not too bad for a first try._

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**Chapter 1**

Lassiter sighed as he felt the weight of the last week lessen significantly. "So we're agreed, then? He's got to do it, Chief. I... I don't want to work with him again until he has." He had a whole host of reasons why, all of them ruining his stomach that very moment as he contemplated Spencer's latest debacle.

"It's been my observation that you _never_ want to work with him anyway, Detective." Karen observed dryly.

"I don't. But that's never mattered before," Lassiter observed acerbically. He knew he was counting the steps up to that line--the one called insubordination. He'd been flirting with it every since Spencer had arrived three years ago to utterly wreck his world, and this time he almost didn't care. "And unless you finally let me lock him away in a cell, you and I both know that even if you _did_ suddenly boot his ass to the curb, he'd still find a way to be..._there_. He's like a... like a..." Lassiter thought hard to come up with something terrible and terribly annoying enough that it properly summarized Spencer's worst qualities, but gained nothing for the effort. "...Like something neurotic that's constantly underfoot!"

Cockroach came too late to mind.

Karen stared at him over the rim of her paperwork like he'd just sprouted another head.

Lassiter sighed long-sufferingly. "All I'm saying chief, is that this..." He gestured toward her newly delivered I.A. recommendation. "This might have gone a lot worse, at several very key, very ugly points. I need _something_ to keep me from having to do what I did that night, ever again." Lassiter grabbed at his coffee to cover a grimace as his stomach knotted again at the nagging thoughts he couldn't seem to get rid of. Spencer on the ground, bleeding, trapped under Castillo's screaming form. Lassiter's own gun hot in his hands as he stood there wondering if he'd killed Henry Spencer's only child. "That was NOT my idea of a great evening."

Karen nodded sympathetically, conceding his point. "I can understand that. The circumstances you were under were... extremely difficult. You handled yourself admirably." She wanted to set his mind at ease but it was more complex than that. It always was for a good cop. The mandatory psych eval hadn't turned up any particularly troublesome consequences, but that didn't mean the shooting hadn't effected Lassiter. "I'm still amazed you managed to barely nick him. Taking the shot to stop Castillo in the half-light, that took nerve, not to mention aim. An inch to one side and... Well, no reason to dwell on that," she smiled a little too brightly. "It's just lucky for Mr. Spencer that you're such a crack shot. Too bad the perp fell on him, that wrenched knee will take quite a while to heal."

Lassiter absently rubbed his stomach as he contemplated how wrong the chief had it. Oh he **was** lucky he'd only nicked Spencer. Only contrary to the Cheif's conclusion, it had nothing to do with him being a crack shot.

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Gus had long ago figured out Shawn Spencer.

Every twelve year old sitting outside the principal's office fidgeted nervously, even the class clown. _Especially _the class clown. Class clowns--and Shawn was no exception--were usually guilty of a whole host of things and being summoned to the principal's office always left them wondering which of their many sins had been sussed out.

So Gus really could sympathize as he watched Shawn root through the paper's he'd snagged off the bullpen's board of wanted faces--making an impressive array of paper planes that flew further and further each design.

Gus knew, inside Shawn was a wreck.

"Damn!" Shawn cried out, pouting. "This cast is making it hard to fold my paper jets right. I'm _definitely_ not having a Top Gun moment here." Shawn eyed Gus wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Though I _have_ retained my very stunning Tom Cruise sensibilities."

Gus wasn't fooled. He patted his friend on the back. "It's gonna be okay Shawn. She's not gonna yell at you, expel you, or call your father to come pick you up. This isn't middle school and you gave your official statement in the hospital." He snagged an in-progress aircraft from Shawn's fingers--ignoring the resultant pout. "And you don't look _a thing _like Tom Cruise."

"Gus! Hush your mouth," Shawn said with an affronted, distinctly Southern Belle accent. He batted his eyes at his best friend while grabbing another paper--this one featuring an interestingly lopsided desperado, one Marcus Hathaway--and started making another plane--ignoring Gus' reassurances. He suspected Gus was trying to be supportive in his inestimably 'Wally Cleaver cum Martha Stewart' sort of way. It was kind of endearing. "_This _jet is the 'Hathaway' Mark II. And Gus-bus," Shawn eyed his best friend meaningfully. "This time don't hinder my engineering genius."

"Shawn, first off, they're paper 'planes', not jets. And second--'The Hathaway'? Really..."

"Hathaway is a great name for a jet!" Shawn insisted. "Shared by a rather unfortunately non-bilaterally symmetrical criminal type wanted for..." He unfolded an edge of the wing and looked. "...armed robbery apparently. As well as a vaguely lesbian-ish lady by the name of Jane who works far too hard for this skeazy banker in Beverly Hills." Shawn's expression brightened as another 'Hathaway' occurred to him. "Not to mention an Anne Hathaway who only occasionally got herself some William tail," Shawn winked at that one. "Ah! And a Noah Hathaway, whose career never recovered from staring in 'Troll'--a movie which I liked really well by the way, despite the reviews. Oh! Oh! And don't forget the..."

"Shawn!" Gus interrupted. He tried very hard to ignore the knowing smirks accumulating around the room.

Shawn smiled innocently, his diversionary task almost complete. He waited a moment and when Gus just looked at him in _that_ way, he continued. "And it _is_ _too_ a jet." He held up the newly half formed paper aircraft. "I'll have you know that the Hathaway is a groundbreaking innovation based upon the F-117A Nighthawk stealth fighter _jet_--not stealth fighter _plane_. See, the long, elegant nose, the shapely fuselage...the pert, flirty little rudders... She's _such_ a hussy." He was about to wax lyrical about the paper jet's enticing wingspan when Shawn heard heavy size 12 Lassy shoes heading toward the door with purposeful step. He quickly took the rest of the _borrowed_ warrant flyers and hid them under his ass, affecting his patent pending 'innocent' look again, not that it seemed to work on anyone anymore. Hence patent pending.

Gus sighed resignedly and tried his own version of the 'innocent' look. Shawn refrained from telling him it came off more as 'dangerously constipated' than 'not guilty'.

Lassiter threw the door open and looked down at the two seated at the bench outside the chief's office. "Yeah, they're here," he called over his shoulder.

"Well send him in, detective," Shawn heard through the doorway. To trained non-psychic ears, the Chief sounded too cheery. This wasn't going to be good. To top it all off, she'd only called for one of them. No bets on which one of them it was. "Gus, hold my hand," he said gravely. "I think I may be sick."

Gus gave his best friend a sharp once-over. Shawn didn't look even a little green. He frowned and gently batted away the plaster encased arm offered forth. "First of all, don't ask me to hold your hand if you're really gonna be sick. I don't love you that well. Second, I'm not holding_ that_ hand at all, Shawn. That's the one in a cast and I don't want to touch it."

"What!" Shawn stared incredulously, theatrics completely set aside in lieu of this new juicy Gus issue. "You don't want to touch it? Why? It doesn't have _cast cooties_. A broken wrist is not a communicable disease," he offered exasperated, and yet pleasantly intrigued. Some of the things that went through Gus' head and out of his mouth were just fascinating. A veritable primordial soup of dorkalicious proportions. "Gus, we aren't having a _Lysol moment_, are we?" he eyed his best friend speculatively.

Gus made a noise that Shawn took for guilty consternation, no doubt about to issue a bashful denial--when Shawn interrupted. He smiled wickedly. "Regardless, I _do_ wonder if cats can? You know...catch cast cooties, that is. Tell me Gus, CAN cats catch cast cooties.... Curiously quick?" He wiggled his brows suggestively and knew he'd scored when Gus rolled his eyes, pretending very hard not to be amused. "A tongue twister methinks... Costa Rican cats _can_ catch cast cooties curiously quick. Costa Rican cats can..."

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped. He'd had enough of waiting and wasn't in the mood to have his sanity challenged today. "Get in here--sooner rather than later."

"You could have just said so, Lassie." Shawn smiled up demurely and grabbed his sad cane. And it WAS sad--as prosthetic assistants went. All black, no cool hand grip like a lion or a griffon, or even an owl. Even Henry would think this one sucked. But Gus had refused to order him the super special spy cane with a wicked hidden dagger blade. Something about maiming himself with it. Instead he'd brough Shawn a cane that was horribly, horribly plain and uninteresting. Normal even. Which is precisely why he'd written a Vonnegut quote on a small paper banner in red ink and taped it around the cane in a spiral--_If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind._ God bless Vonnegut. Shawn often felt exactly like that, except for times like now, when being able to see out of even one eye was biting him on the ass big time.

Groaning loudly, Shawn pulled slowly to his feet. It was only the barest of exaggerations. He'd gotten stiff sitting there waiting and Shawn really did hurt today. Gus pitched in to help or it might have taken longer. He was still more than a little sore from his latest misadventure.

"Anytime, Spencer," Lassiter growled.

He watched Spencer pull himself standing the rest of the way, leaning heavily on the cane with his good hand and Lassiter's stomach did another guilty flop. Which lasted all of 5 seconds. This was Spencer's own fault, Lassiter kept telling himself. He simply _wasn't_ going to feel bad about grazing him with a bullet, nor any of the rest of it. He just wasn't. He'd saved the man's life, and that utterly and completely balanced the scales. It didn't matter that Spencer hadn't escaped the evening unscathed--Lassiter told his conscience to go piss off.

Now if he could just get the uneasy knot in his stomach to go away.

He held the door open, sighing as Spencer limped slowly through, moaning low and piteous along the way. Lassiter turned just in time to nearly close the door in Guster's face and smiled tightly through the crack. "Run along for coffee, Guster. We'll hand what's left of Spencer's ass back to you when the Chief is done."

"If you're quite finished, Detective," Karen called. She watched her head detective close the door and gestured for him to take a seat. She hated it when Carlton was insufferably pleased with himself. She_ really _hated it when he prowled her office like some overgrown cat--something he only tended to do when one Shawn Spencer was an issue. She was getting both in spades today, not that she could blame him. Unsurprisingly, he retreated to the corner to lean against her file cabinet instead of seating himself next to the man in question.

Shawn smiled at the subtle contest of wills between two of his favorite of Santa Barbara's finest. "Why'd you call me here, Chief? And what's with 86-ing Gus?" Shawn wouldn't admit it if you put him before a firing squad, but he actually _was_ a little nervous. Karen in front of him, the door and Lassiter behind... This smacked of an ambush. "I already told you Lassie-frass shooting me was an accident. The alley was dark and I was in the middle of a manly tussle with Carlos Santana."

Karen bit down on a smile. "This is between the department and you, not Mr Guster--since he wasn't in attendance for this _incident_. I thought it best we speak confidentially." She straightened the stack of papers on her desk. "I called you here to discuss several things, not least of which is how you specifically ended up in that alley."

Shawn waved his cast airily. "Well, as I already told you, I got this really intense psychic urge that totally overtook me. I had no choice but to follow where the spirits led or they would never have let me get on with my business."

Lassiter snorted. "And what business was that?"

Shawn smiled beatifically and leaned on one elbow, eyeing Lassiter. "There's a pet store near there. I was planning on buying a parrot."

"Buying a parrot?" Lassiter scowled incredulously.

"See Lassie-frass, now if you'd just shown your amazing gift for mimicry beforehand, I never would have been headed for the pet store. Next time open up about these special talents of yours, before someone gets hurt."

Lassiter took in a sharp breath, bracing to loose a tirade of epic proportion and Karen quickly cut in. "Mr Spencer, let's get to the point. Nevermind the circumstances for now, we have something else very vital to discuss. Now, before I get started, I _do_ want to make it clear that the department still needs you."

"Why thank you Chief, I'm touched," Shawn smiled widely.

"In the head," Lassiter grumbled.

"Detective..." she warned, noting Lassiter's immediately penitent glower. "Thank you. Now, as I was saying Mr. Spencer, you provide good, solid help to the department. Some might say invaluable help." Karen patently ignored the irritated noise from Lassiter's corner. "But you also, as evidenced by the situation last week, present a remarkable liability."

"What!" Shawn squawked. "I manage to solve..."

"This isn't about your solve rate,Mr Spencer," Karen assured him. "This is about the fact that I haven't been very responsible or fair to either you or detective Lassiter."

Shawn's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This sounds remarkably like an 'It's not you, it's me' speech. Are you breaking up with Psych, Karen?"

Keren Vick took in a slow breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "What I'm saying is that it's not been very responsible of me to allow you into the field without making sure you had proper training. In other departments consultants don't take such an... uhm... active roll in the investigation. And it's unfair of me to expect _Head_ Detective Lassiter, or any other of my officers to cover for _anyone's_ inadequate field preparedness. Next time we might not get so lucky"

"In other words, you're grounded, Spencer," Lassiter said smugly.

"What!" Shawn cried. "I thought..."

"Detective Lassiter, may I remind you who signed off on your I.A. review?" Karen inquired suggestively.

"Sorry Chief." Lassiter folded his arms and scowled deeply.

Shawn ignored the complete lack of penitence in Lassiter's voice. "Wait, Lassie was reviewed by Infernal Repairs?"

"_Internal Affairs_, Mr Spencer, is involved almost anytime an officer fires his weapon. And certainly anytime another human being is shot--especially a civilian."

"But he only grazed me!" Shawn squawked.

Lassiter was surprised, to say the least, to find Spencer protesting on his behalf. Perhaps the harrowing experience had made an impression. Then again, this was Shawn Spencer. Nuclear detonation wouldn't make an impression.

"Calm down, Mr. Spencer. Detective Lassiter was cleared of any wrongdoing," Karen clarified. "But considering the circumstances, there has been strong pressure to reconsider the exact nature of your services."

Shawn was a little beside himself. And for the first time in a long time--ever maybe--he was almost at a loss for words. Almost. "But... I wasn't working as your consultant when I came upon Castillo. That was sheer luck."

"Luck?" Lassiter latched onto that like a starving lion.

"Well," Shawn grinned rakishly, suddenly realizing what he'd admitted. "Luck, _and_ the spirits wailing in my head like Kelly Ripa confronted with a cheeseburger."

Karen swallowed a chuckle, refusing to be derailed. "What I'm saying is that you need to acquire an additional skill-set if you want to be able to continue to assist us on cases. Unless you engage in a qualified self defense course with the goal of eventually passing specs for standard departmental qualification, I'm afraid I can't allow you to continue your consultant status with the SBPD."

"Wait, you aren't grounding him until he qualifies?" Lassiter knew it was a mistake the moment he said it. The subtle turndown of Karen's expression solidified it. "Uh right. Sorry."

Shawn smiled. Nice to know someone had Lassie's leash. He watched Karen tent her fingers and square her shoulders and for once held his tongue. "Mr. Spencer, you may continue to work cases so long as you are _participating_ in a self defense course. We'll discuss a time for you to consider testing a little further down the road. You are, after all, still recovering."

"That's really very generous, Chief," Shawn smiled. "But I _can_ defend myself pretty well already. The psychic vibage usually gives me an edge. _And_ I can shoot better than even Lassie-face. _My_ aim is perfect." He gave the man a knowing, narrow-eyed look. Below the belt was how Shawn loved it best.

Lassiter felt his blood boil almost instantly at the subtle condemnation. "Firstly, the only thing you shoot off better than me is your mouth! And secondly, it wouldn't matter if you _were_ a better marksman, because you don't carry a damn gun!" Despite being almost painfully relieved his shot had only winged Spencer rather than seriously injuring him, Lassiter really, REALLY wanted to strangle the idiot with his bare hands. No one he'd ever met before or since had ever cried out for special kinds of violence like Shawn Spencer did. It was amazing no one had killed him before now.

"Detective Lassiter, I believe that's enough," Karen ordered a little too calmly. She used her special, 'nice person with your balls in a vice' voice. Lassiter shivered and actually found a chair to sit in this time.

"Sorry Chief." Lassiter wondered if he'd make it through the meeting without being busted to beat cop.

"As I was saying, Mr Spencer--it's not that I doubt your skills. It's that I need to feel that both you and my detectives are as prepared as you possibly can be. That way, Internal Affairs won't be able to hold anything over this department's head if you should be injured in the course of working for us."

_Oh... _Shawn let his smile slide marginally. "So this is T&I butt shielding." He couldn't quite keep the bitter sound out of his voice. "I get it."

"Mr Spencer... Shawn... It's for your own safety too. This is dangerous work sometimes, as you're very well aware. And I don't want to have to be the one to tell Henry Spencer that a little extra training could have saved your life."

Apparently, Shawn noted, Karen Vick had her own secret compartment of below-the belt tactics as well. Because invoking _he who shall not be named_, was definitely steel-toeing a guy in his smalls. "Holy batshit Commissioner! You already have that whole 'mom guilt' thing down perfectly. Mini-Karen won't know what hit her when she tries to have a real life later on." It was a rotten egg the moment he laid it, and thus stunk appropriately. Karen just sat there a moment, looking at Shawn with that 'let me know when you've grown up' expression on her face. He contemplated that she really _was_ going to make one helluva dictator/mother. "So..." Shawn offered in quiet surrender. "Where do I get these self defense classes? Any community college will do? It's not like I'm fit to take them anytime soon anyway."

_Ah_, Karen thought. _Now we get to the good part. _"I'd like you to be trained here at the station. The department has the facilities and the qualified staff. If you want to meet the rigorous standards, I suspect you'll need to be trained by a qualified department member."

Shawn wasn't stupid. He cocked his head at Karen, waiting for the other shoe he sensed to drop like a ton of wet Birkenstocks.

"Besides which." And here it came. "You'd just flirt or manipulate your way through community classes if given half a chance," Karen observed matter of factly.

Lassiter smiled wolfishly. Maybe the Chief _finally_ had listened to him. She had the right idea and for once and wasn't going to go easy on the pest. "I bet Lt. Brennam could whip him into shape," he offered.

"Actually Detective Lassiter. I was intending for _you_ to teach him. And you can start two weeks from now. I'm sure you'll be mindful of the need to take things incrementally, considering Mr. Spencer's injuries." It wouldn't do to seem smug, but Karen was sorely tempted. Carlton Lassiter was gawping like a drunken gold fish. "Even the injured need to know how to defend themselves properly, Detective. And this would be a perfect opportunity for you to teach a passive defense course. I'm _trusting_ you with this, Detective Lassiter. I'm sure you'll show Mr. Spencer your patience and your forbearance, along with your vastly superior martial experience--setting curriculum within his current physical limitations until he's been medically cleared. At which point you may extend his lessons." Karen couldn't contain her triumphant grin any longer. Rank most definitely had its privileges.

"But!" Lassiter protested.

"Detective..." she warned.

"Chief," he cried. "There's no way!" Surely his superior officer wasn't _that_ cruel.

"Detective Lassiter," she said reproachfully.

"I... I have _cases_ to solve. A...A stack of them! On my desk! I can't teach self defense to Rainman over here!"

"Carly!" Shawn suddenly interjected into this most entertaining of theatrical events--his own private showing of 'Karen Hands Lassie His Ass'. "That was _almost_ clever of you! But really, do I strike you as being even a _little _autistic? Besides which, I always considered myself less of a Dustin Hoffman sort and more of a Tom Cruise kind of guy."

Karen ignored Shawn and eyed her Head Detective meaningfully. "You aren't being given a choice, Detective. If he fails, you and I will have more to speak of. Am I clear?"

Lassiter's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Crystal," he grumbled resignedly.

"Day-um, girlfriend! I ain't never seen a sista bring a brotha ta heel that fast." Shawn acknowledged Karen's cocked brow with an instant deflection. "Sorry, I was channeling Queen Latifah."

Karen frowned. "But she isn't dead."

"Uh-oh, maybe she will be soon. Somebody call her agent."

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped, derailing yet another tangent into the Twilight Zone before it got started. Or more apropos...the Spencer Zone. He sighed out his nose, shoulder's slumping. "Twice a week. And if we're doing this, we're doing it so that it doesn't interfere with my investigations. So be here bright and early at 6am sharp."

Shawn remembered at the last second not to whack himself with his cast and used his 'off' hand to rub his temple for his latest _psychic event_. "Uh... 6am is a no go, Lassie-face. The spirits aren't able to reach me that early. Something about Greenwich Meantime and tea..." Really, who wanted to do anything that required consciousness at 6am! It's the middle of the night!

"Save it, Spencer," Lassiter growled. "Try what the rest of the world uses--this weird invention called an alarm clock." He couldn't make the early morning sessions so intense that Spencer would quit or fail. The chief had made it clear Spencer had to succeed or else _his_ ass was on the line. But he didn't have to make it fun for the other man. In fact, he could make it down right unpleasant. And maybe, just maybe, Spencer would actually learn enough that Lassiter would be saved from any more ulcer-inducing shootouts. "6am two weeks from today. That's a Tuesday for the calendar challenged among us. Don't be late. I WILL show up at your house if you skip out."

"But... 6am! That's cruel and unusual! I thought you Officers of the Law had a thing against that," Shawn whined.

"No, that would be the D.A.'s office," And for once, this whole thing actually seemed like a really, REALLY good idea to Lassiter. He got up, nodded to his superior. "Chief, if that's all..."

"Dismissed Detective," she said, highly satisfied AND amused.

Shawn waited for Lassiter to leave before he turned to Karen, a look of betrayal on his face. "He's gonna kill me," he pouted.

"Actually Mr. Spencer--If you think about it, he had his chance to do just that last week." Karen gave him a meaningful look for a moment before returning to her paperwork.

Shawn heard the dismissal for what it was and slowly made his way to the door, contemplating her observation. But Shawn knew the truth--that Lassiter had actually been _intending_ to shoot him and had Shawn not acted when he did, he'd have been sporting god only knows what kind of injury. You don't shoot the hostage just to catch the villain. That wasn't in the hero rulebook.

Closing the office door, he looked around, flooded with relief as he spotted Gus talking with Buzz at the far end of the bullpen. It'd been a long morning... Wait, what time was it? 1pm now... Okay, still morning by his standards. It had been a long morning and Shawn wanted to go home, take a pain pill and watch something inspirational. Shawn had a plot to devise. He had no idea how he would manage a self defense course, let alone one being taught by _Genghis Lassiter _at 6am in the morning. But one thing _was_ clear. However he managed the following weeks, Shawn was going to make Head Detective Lassi-face rue the day he was hatched. Most prominently by assuring that one Shawn Spencer, Fake Psychic Detective Extraordinaire, would have continued, steady income working along side SBPD's finest anal retentive protector of the peace for a long, LONG time to come. After all, what would Lassiter do without him? Start shooting other civilians?

_Alright_, he smiled to himself as Gus nearly ran up with a pineapple smoothing in hand and a look of earnest concern. _Time for a gameplan. _

Shawn held up his cast to forestall the thousand questions he was likely to have to answer very soon. "You know, Gus--I'm of a mind to watch a movie. Maybe _three_ movies. I need a strategy."

"Okay," Gus agreed easily. He was used to _creative_ strategy planning techniques, and Shawn had that evil scientist look he got sometimes. "What three movies?" And just _what _were they planning? Does it have anything to do with your meeting with the Chief and Lassiter?"

"Very perceptive of you, my friend. We indeed have a mission, Gustopher Robin. And we're gonna call this mission, 'Operation Drive Lassie-face stark raving mad until he signs off on my official papers that I have much totally kick-ass self defense-fu'." Shawn took a long, blessed-out draw on the pineapple smoothie and grinned evilly. "I need the Mission Impossible trilogy, my friend."

Gus frowned. "Uh, Shawn...first, that's a terrible name for a mission--way too long to ever be practical. Second, what does the M.I. trilogy have to do with driving Lassiter insane?"

"Nothing, my dear Chocolate Watson. I merely need to get my Tom Cruise mojo workin' to start my genius." Shawn limped out of the station, leaning heavily on his cane, pineapple smoothie gripped to perfect sipping height against his chest by his cast--patently ignoring Gus' assertions that he was much more the Tom Dreesen type than Tom Cruise.


End file.
